This is a blog post for survivors of assault

I grew up in a sleepy, small town. More accurately, I grew up in a small, sleepy county.  There was one high school for about six towns, and it had roughly 400 students all together.  The nearest Wal-mart was about a forty minute drive, depending on where in the county you were. Winters were brutal and summers were amazing. We spoke about travel in terms of minutes to get there, not miles. Everything was far apart. For some, where I grew up is heaven.  It's the kind of place where it seems like nothing bad can happen. And honestly, it rarely did. Sure, there was crime in the city nearest to us, but it seemed distant.  I never knew anyone personally who had been a victim of, well, anything.

But somehow as I grew up, there were things I just learned and accepted as true. Maybe it was the television. I watched a lot of Law and Order: SVU. I know that in my health class, we talked about the bad things that can happen to women.

Rape.

That four letter word. The punchline to so many edgelord jokes. The reason I walk more quickly when I am alone, keep my head down, don't make too much eye contact.  The reason I hurry when I am in a public restroom.

My mom once told me that predators go for women wearing ponytails, because they're easy to grab.  She told me that women wearing dresses were targets.  Even women wearing overalls - because the straps were easy to cut.

I was told to be aware when I was out in public.  I was told to watch my drink, and make sure I was the one who made it. For my whole adolescent life, I was coached, advised, and groomed to live in fear of strange men. No one told me to fear the men I knew.

I was barely 19. I think, anyway. It was spring break my sophomore year of college, so that sounds right. I would turn 20 that November. I had made some friends in town when I went to college who weren't students, themselves.  I was really a terribly awkward person when I moved to Tennessee for college. I had never been very good at making friends because I am such a deeply anxious person, and I was 17 when I started my freshman year. These friends I made took me into their friend group even though I was a total hot mess, especially when drunk. I was obnoxious, loud, and terrible. They were still kind to me, mostly.  They were how I met Parker.

Parker was dynamic, confident, and attractive. I met him at the first party I went to in Tennessee. He had brought a girl with him. She was under 18. Everyone laughed and made jokes about it. She was very, very pretty. She was thin, beautiful, and blonde. Parker was the type of guy that I'd had crushes on in middle school.  All he was missing was the puka shell necklace. At later parties, people would joke about how once I turned 18, I'd be too old for him.

We hung out one time by ourselves. I picked him up from his parent's house and just drove us around. I guess maybe he didn't want people to know he was hanging out with me. It was a totally innocent thing. There wasn't even a kiss at the end. Just two adults, hanging out.  I even joked that now that I was 18, I was too old for him. How messed up is that? This guy was in his twenties and exclusively seeking out teenagers, and we all just laughed it off.

It was nearly spring break, and I was getting lusty for a wander. I posted on my Facebook that I wanted to go see the ocean, but didn't have anywhere to stay, and I was poor. Imagine my shock when Parker commented on my status that he was in New Smyrna, and I could stay with him.

I immediately sent him a message. Are you serious?
He was.

I drove down to New Smyrna from Nashville where I had been staying with a friend.  I was excited to see the ocean and positively glowing with anticipation of seeing Parker. I would be lying if I said I didn't have a crush on him. Again, he was dynamic, confident, and attractive. I had terribly low self esteem. And I was going to get to hang out with him for a weekend.

I was so fucking naive.

I arrived to his apartment that he shared with his roommate late. We stayed up chatting and flirting.  I don't remember how many vodka tonics I had.  I remember at some point, I stopped making them for myself. Parker or his roommate would bring them to me. My guard was completely down.

The last clear memory I have is a dark hallway, in front of his bedroom. He's kissing me. Then it goes black.

I woke up naked with Parker between my legs. He was penetrating me digitally. It hurt. I sat up and yelled at him to stop, that I didn't want to have sex, no, no, no. Please stop.

He looked at me and said "what are you talking about, we were already having sex".

I asked him what he meant. He said "we were already having sex." He said something about it being fun. I think he asked me if it felt good. I begged him to stop.

He got so angry. But he stopped.

Amazingly, I slept next to him that night.  Amazingly, I was worried he was mad at me.

The next day I was so sore inside my vagina that it hurt to walk, but I went to the beach with him, anyway.

I tried to convince myself that what had happened, hadn't.  I barely remembered it, after all. He hardly spoke to me after my first night there. I drove around New Smyrna alone. I ate at the same McDonalds three times in a row. I went home a day early, and rerouted myself through a navy base where a friend from high school was stationed. We got drunk and made out, as we had done several other times. My friend never did anything to me when I was drunk outside of cover me with a blanket and make sure I was on my side so I didn't choke on my own vomit.

I tried to forget what happened but I was haunted by Parker's words. "We already had sex."  And so, against my better judgment, I reached out to him on Facebook.

Why did you say that?

Because we did.

Why would you do that? I was passed out.

You knew I Was a virgin.

That's the kicker to the whole story, isn't it? I had never had sex. I had never had an adult relationship. I hardly dated in high school. I didn't know what a normal dynamic was.

I never really learned about consent.

He was someone I considered a friend. So was it rape?
I was drinking that night. So was it rape?
Everyone knew I'd had a crush on him. So was it rape?
Everyone knew I liked the attention. So was it rape?
It took me a year to tell anyone about it. So was it rape?

Was it rape? Did I consent? Somewhere in that dark hallway did a drunk and probably drugged version of Morgan say "Yes, please. This is what I've been saving myself for."  A dark bedroom that reeked of mildew. Warm gin and tonic water with the smallest slices of lime.

But everyone knew I was Desperate Girl. Everyone knew I flirted with everyone at any party, just hoping to get some sort of stamp of approval. Pretty Enough. Smart Enough. Sexy Enough.

So I deserved it, right?

Wasn't I asking for it? Didn't I?

It wasn't until a few years ago that I really came to terms with what happened to me. It wasn't until a few years ago that I was able to call it rape. Because let me answer the above questions for you: I never consented. I didn't want to have sex. I was not lucid. I had likely been drugged.

I was raped by someone I knew and naively trusted. I was raped and I did not report it. I was raped and I was deeply, deeply ashamed. I was raped and every time a politician says something derogatory about women who didn't report, I relive every moment. I still remember what his hands felt like inside of me. I suppose it's a blessing I was passed out for the rest. I still remember how sore I was. How swollen my labia were. I remember how he thought it was a laugh, a game, a joke.

I didn't just lose my virginity that night, I lost my agency and my innocence. I laid the foundation for what would become the fortress around myself and my heart. Guilt were the bricks and self loathing was the mortar.

No one told me that the pain of sexual assault doesn't go away after the physical pain has healed. No amount of "carry pepper spray" or "put your keys between your fingers" or other preventative advice prepared me for what this feels like. What it still feels like. Almost ten years ago.

Almost ten years ago and I still remember his name, and his face. I doubt he remembers me at all. I doubt I was his first. I'm sure I wasn't his last. He followed me through college. Through my first boyfriend who yelled at me when I confessed what happened, because I had told him I was a virgin when we got together.  He followed me through every relationship, both romantic and otherwise, that I tried to start. His name was added to the ever growing list of my traumas that became the vetting process for so many friendships and failed romances.

"are you prepared to deal with the emotional fall out of x, y, and z? Sign on the dotted line"


He followed me to the 2016 Presidential election, when Donald Trump bragged about grabbing women's genitals. He followed me to the inauguration when he was given the office of President, the highest in the land.  He followed me in my relationship with Justin.

He was there every time I tensed up during a sexual encounter, and every time I was coerced into doing something I didn't want to do, because I was afraid of being raped again.  Every time I said no and men thought I was saying "work for it."

I still feel guilty that it happened. I apologized to my husband yesterday for bringing it up, in light of Trump's horrible, victim blaming tweet. He told me to never apologize for what happened to me again. But I still feel like I brought it on myself. I still feel like I did this. I feel like because I wasn't chased down in a park, or cornered in a public bathroom, my assault doesn't matter. Because it wasn't violent. Because I deserved it.

I still feel like I deserved it.

And this is why I didn't report.